


The Very First Breath (When Your Head’s Been Drowning Underwater)

by incorrectbatfam



Category: DCU (Comics), Young Justice - All Media Types
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Angst, Established Relationship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I Don't Even Know, M/M, Out of Character, Songfic, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:22:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25493824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/incorrectbatfam/pseuds/incorrectbatfam
Summary: There was a saying, if he remembered correctly: “The saddest people smile the brightest.” He supposed he could see the validity in that—in himself. Except he wasn’t sad. Nor was he happy or angry or afraid or… anything. The summer rain was the most he’s felt in a while; he couldn’t even remember. People always talked about “letting out your feelings,” but how could he let out something that he wasn’t even sure existed?
Relationships: Bart Allen/Jaime Reyes
Comments: 1
Kudos: 24





	The Very First Breath (When Your Head’s Been Drowning Underwater)

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this at like 2 AM and like… I dunno, I was sorta high and this is just really random.
> 
> The title comes from the song “1-800-273-8255” by Logic (which is also the biggest suicide prevention hotline in the U.S.)

The tear tracks on his cheeks had long since dried like desert rivers and the pink around his eyes almost entirely faded as evergreen irises scanned the apartment, illuminated only by what was outside. The kitchen seats were all neatly pushed in, across a frigid tiled floor from a counter holding pots and pans, clean dishes in a drying rack, whetted knives in a cypress block with medications stored a locked cabinet above it. 

Feet shuffled across the coarse rug to where a door was left ajar. A glint bounced off the dresser mirror and in it, his reflection was indistinguishable from that of an apparition. Draped over a chair was, among other things, a striped scarf, like a serpent slithering towards its next victim. Next to that sat a wastebasket empty of everything except a paper ball at the bottom. A figure snored quietly on one side of the bed, the other immaculately made. The young man leaned over and planted a soft forehead kiss, careful not to rouse his partner.

The front door’s deadbolt clicked and he was off. Where he was going, he neither knew nor cared. He needed to get out—too many thoughts, too many options, too many temptations inside. His mind swarmed, every thought stinging like a hornet. Rolling up a sleeve, he spared a glance at the eleven digits scrawled in long-lasting ink. That’d be the final resort, he resolved. 

He covered the writing with the sleeve of a blue-gray sweatshirt that hung slightly past his thumbs. The air was thick with a lukewarm sprinkle when he stepped outside, and he was forced to flip up the hoodie, smothering the wildfire mane underneath. Scarlet stoplights reflected and spread across the intersection like blood spilled on a battlefield. He closed his eyes, picked a random turn, and followed that sidewalk to wherever it was destined to end. Every droplet, every ounce of moisture clung to his skin as if he lived in the tropics as opposed to the Atlantic Seaboard.

There was a saying, if he remembered correctly: _“The saddest people smile the brightest.”_ He supposed he could see the validity in that—in himself. Except he wasn’t sad. Nor was he happy or angry or afraid or… anything. The summer rain was the most he’s felt in a while; he couldn’t even remember. People always talked about “letting out your feelings,” but how could he let out something that he wasn’t even sure existed?

Not bothering to check both ways, he jogged across the street and took a sharp left. The pavement came to a dead halt, and after that gravel crunched under his shoes. He hopped from that path to a parallel one—a splintered wooden walkway twice as old as him. Running alongside was a strip of beach sand, a light lavender color in the low light. Not far beyond that, there was the steady back and forth lapping of the ocean, a _lub lub_ _lub_ like the planet’s pulse. He didn’t think the air could grow thicker, yet salt permeated every square inch, to the point where it stung his nostrils and he could taste it when he opened his mouth. 

If anyone asked how he was doing, he’d plaster on a grin and drop his favorite catchphrase and crack a witty one-liner in hopes someone would appreciate it. It was easier than attempting to explain the all-too-real truth—how it took forever to get out of bed because it felt like his body was made of stone, how he was constantly starving but had zero appetite for anything put in front of him, how he could barely muster the energy for a five-minute social media check. 

And if they asked _“Why? What caused this?”_ He'd tell them their guess was as good as his.

He leaned against the rickety railing, watching the dark clouds roil and rumble in short staccatos as if a giant horse was trotting across the sky. Behind him, the town emitted a soft glow—if he didn’t know better, he could’ve mistaken the step-like buildings for an altar of candles and marigolds. Kind of like the ones he and his boyfriend pieced together every October. The sprinkle turned to a downpour.

A pang ran through his chest like a hollow lightning bolt. Would his lover leave out flowers and candles for him or move on to someone better? Would people cry or simply look on with pity? Would he be remembered in albums passed down generations or would he be just another forgettable line in the daily paper? 

He let out a single bitter chuckle. He should’ve known better to think anybody would miss him. It was selfish and childish to believe that their worlds revolved around him. Everything he thought was selfish. Every impulsive, self-destructive daydream. Every night he wished he could stay asleep. It was stupid. He supposedly had everything a human being could ever want and in theory, he shouldn’t be feeling the way he did because others had it worse, but goddamn did he want so badly to be selfish for once in his life. 

A tiny flutter pierced the thought bubble. He looked down to find a bug—a beetle with iridescent midnight wings—situating itself on the back of his hand. It paused, as if gauging its senses to figure out what to make of him. The insect made its way through the sensitive spots on his skin, drawing a silent giggle from his lips. He asked it if he should quit right now, stop whatever this was once and for all. There was no answer at first. Then the beetle crawled up his sleeve, forcing him to push it back. His breath hitched when it stopped at the writing on his forearm. With trembling fingers, he pulled out his phone and dialed the number. The little beetle stayed with him, as if holding his hand as he was connected to the person on the other end. He rolled his arm, allowing it to nuzzle in the cracked crevices of his palm. 

And they stayed. They stayed as he spoke to someone, starting from the very beginning. And they stayed as the other party provided comfort and consolation. Regardless of how scripted the words sounded, they were better than nothing. Lifting an ounce off his shoulders was better than letting the whole weight crush him. The constellations dipped over the landscape and he talked and he cried and he _felt_. A hairline fracture in the clouds ushered in the flaming pinks and oranges of a new day’s light, shining on the sparkling sands and diamond tides. The last drops on his skin evaporated, and he pulled his sleeves down with how cool it suddenly got. The atmosphere cleared as if someone opened a window and waved the contaminants away in a gentle breeze. Only a faint ocean spray lingered, and when he finally ended the call, fresh air flooded his lungs like a balloon being inflated for the first time.

He turned to the beetle, only to find it spreading its shimmering wings. Before he could protest, it took off without so much as a goodbye glance over its shoulder. He whirled around, desperately pleading for it to stay. But the bug disappeared. He sighed and gazed back out at the ocean, accepting that he would have to witness the view by himself.

Another hand laid itself on top of his. He didn’t even need to look before throwing himself into a pair of sturdy arms who were more than ready to catch him and hold him tightly, promising to not let him fall. He buried his face in fresh cotton as a familiar melodic Spanish lilt drove out the radio static in his head. The crinkle of a piece of paper could be heard from a front pocket. He knew there would be endless things to discuss with the question of where to start, but like everything in life, that would come in its due time. For now, he was just glad to see the sunrise.


End file.
